


Run Right; or Lie

by PuppiesRainbowsSadism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppiesRainbowsSadism/pseuds/PuppiesRainbowsSadism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Dean died during Faith, the first seal was broken in season one, and Sam met Castiel when his faith was as strong as ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Right; or Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by rosworms @ tumblr.
> 
> I honestly think I could have done better with this. This is the kind of idea I can (and indeed might) write several fics for.
> 
> Title from John Donne's "The First Anniversary."

          _Dean Winchester is saved_.

          Replacing a soul in its decomposing vessel was not an easy task, but Castiel did the best he could. Dean had only been dead for a few months, so the damage could have been a lot worse, he supposed. It wasn’t too difficult until Castiel began to work his way down to mould the arms, and his hand slipped, leaving a handprint in the delicate skin. He frowned in frustration, but the mark ultimately did no harm, so Castiel finished his work and left Dean Winchester to crawl out of his grave.

~~~~~

          Sam was broken. He was currently having trouble moving, because what was the point? Dean was dead, there wasn’t a demon in the world who would deal with him and Dean would just kill him for it anyway, there were no spells for bringing back the dead, not really. He was a failure. So what was the point in moving? In getting out of bed and living life?

          It wasn’t even as if Dean’s death was something dramatic. He didn’t go out fighting; it was a damned electric shock that had scarred his heart. Even then, Dean was given a few months, and there had been hope to find their own cure. But hope hadn’t been enough. The faith healer hadn’t worked. Dean had died at twenty-six, just as they had started to become brothers again, and there wasn’t a damned thing Sam could do to stop it. So why do anything now? Too little too late, as Dean would have said.

          The only thing Sam could bring himself to do really was pray. And _God_ , did he pray. He prayed every single day with everything he had. He knew God didn’t hand out miracles to just anyone, but he had to try. Not that it mattered; he never got a response, not a thing. Not a whisper or a random act of kindness – _nothing._

          Until he did. Until the day he prayed for something, _anything_ and heard in reply: _Dean Winchester is saved._ Either Sam had finally gone crazy or he was crazy enough to believe he hadn’t.

          But he wasn’t crazy.

          Well, maybe he was – that accounted for the voice, at least – but it didn’t account for how, not twelve hours later, Dean was standing on the other side of the door, knocking in sets of threes, almost hesitantly. Sam almost couldn’t hear his brother’s voice, as softly as he was speaking: “C’mon, Sammy, open the door. Please. I know you’re in there; I can see the Impala in the parking lot. Please. I know it has to be a bit of a shock, but let me come in. I’ll explain everything I can.”

          Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, paralysed, his hand outstretched towards the door handle but trembling violently.

          _How_?

          This wasn’t possible. Dean was dead. In Heaven, supposedly.

          Sam weighed his options. Either it was really Dean on the other side of the door, or it was something made to look like him. If he opened the door, it would either be to a reunion or death.

          Sam swung the door open wide and had to resist the urge to throw himself at his brother – covered in dirt and sweat, looking beyond exhausted, but very much alive.

          “Hey, Sammy,” Dean almost whispered, and Sam’s resolve crumbled instantly. He didn’t bother with silver or holy water, just held Dean and buried his face in his shoulder, feeling his brother’s arms wrap around him and sobbing once.

          Dean let out a trembling sigh, undoubtedly noticing how thin Sam had gotten in the months he was gone, how pale his tanned skin had become. Sam kept his face hidden so Dean didn’t have to see the bags under his eyes as well.

          “Now, what would you have done if I was a shifter or somethin’?” Dean laughed, only half joking.

          Sam struggled to keep his reply sounding light. “Well, then I would’ve died and gone to Heaven with you, so it wouldn’t have been all bad.”

          Sam felt Dean’s shoulders slump on a weary sigh and pulled back just enough to look at him. There was a haunted look in Dean’s eyes that Sam had never seen before. Frankly, it scared him a little.

          “Dean?”

          He looked up, but the look remained in place. “We should probably go inside,” he suggested solemnly.

          “Dean, what -- ?”

          “Please.” Dean sounded close to begging, his expression pleading, and there was no way in hell Sam could say no. He kept one hand on Dean as he led them inside – partly for his own reassurance and partly for Dean’s. When Dean dropped onto the bed, Sam sat uncomfortably close, almost in his lap, but all things considered, neither of them minded.

          Dean sighed and leaned forward to rub at his eyes. Sam watched his muscles move under his skin and breathed easily at the signs of life.

          “You know what?” Dean grumbled. “I’m exhausted. Can we talk in the morning?”

          “Yeah, of course,” Sam agreed immediately.

          “Thanks,” Dean muttered, looking around the room for a cot or sofa or something and was surprised to find two beds in the room. He shouldn’t have been. Sam always opted for two queens, even now. Especially now. Dean, thankfully, didn’t question it – just collapsed onto the mattress, boots and all. He was asleep within minutes.

          Sam, on the other hand, didn’t want to let himself sleep. He stayed awake as long as he could in the uncomfortable chair by the window, just watching the rise and fall of Dean’s back as he slept. Sam was afraid his brother would disappear if he took his eyes off him for even one second, if he so much as blinked too long. So it was a miracle Sam got any sleep at all that night, but sometime around dawn, his eyes slipped closed, and he couldn’t bring himself to open them again.

          When he woke up, he was on the other bed, but he was still stiff. Dean must have moved him not that long ago, then. Sunlight was valiantly trying to shine through the curtains, and Dean’s bed was empty. Sam would have panicked if he hadn’t been able to hear the shower running, seen Dean’s clothes in a pile by his duffle.

          Sam sat up with a groan when he heard the water shut off. His head was pounding and his mouth drier than a desert. When was the last time he drank anything? His stomach hurt too, and he wondered when the last time he ate was.

          God he was a mess.

          Dean stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, sparing Sam a concerned look that Sam completely missed because he was staring at the bright red handprint on Dean’s shoulder.

          “What’s that from?” Sam asked as Dean rifled in his duffle.

          “My guess? Whatever it was that brought me back.”

          Sam stood and walked over to his brother as he dressed, stopping him from slipping his shirt on.

          “Does it hurt?” Sam asked, running a finger over the skin.

          The pain was immediate: A white flash of it in his head that made Sam’s ears ring and vision go black for just a second. He may have cried out, but it was impossible to tell.

          When the ringing receded enough, the first thing Sam heard was Dean shouting right in front of him, which did absolutely nothing to help his pounding headache.

          “Sam! Sam, are you okay?! What happened?!”

          Sam groaned something like “shut up” and rolled onto his side, hiding his face in his hands. He had apparently collapsed at some point. Not that it mattered, Christ, it just hurt so much, like one of his psychic headaches magnified by a hundred.

          “What was it?” Dean demanded. “A vision?”

          Sam took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. He didn’t remember seeing it, but the word _Castiel_ was running through his head like a song he only knew half the chorus of.

          “A word,” Sam muttered. Jeez, it hurt just to talk. “A place or a name. Castiel.”

          “What is that, Latin?”

          Sam shook his head, stopped when it made the pain infinitely worse. It wasn’t Latin; Sam would know. It did sound familiar, though, and Sam scoured his brain for where he had heard it before. A spell or one of Bobby’s books. He had definitely read it, not heard it. Handwritten on a piece of paper, but that constituted half the incantations they used.

          Dean sighed and pulled on his shirt so Sam didn’t accidentally touch the handprint again, helping his brother to sit up and climb onto the bed. Sam immediately doubled over, still clutching his head.

          “Will Advil help?” Dean asked doubtfully.

          “No.” It wasn’t the kind of headache that could be fixed with pain killers. Sam knew. He had tried.

          (He wondered briefly why he hadn’t had any visions of Dean’s death, or his resurrection for that matter, but dropped the thought with a groan when his head throbbed again.)

          “You gonna be okay?” Dean asked, passing him a water bottle. “The others weren’t this bad, were they?”

          Sam drank thankfully, trying not to appear too desperate but finding it difficult, parched as he was.

          “Whatever the hell brought you back,” Sam started softly, “has to be extremely powerful.”

          “Stronger than Yellow Eyes?”

          “ _Way_ stronger.”

          Dean looked thoughtful for a moment, considering something silently before seemingly pushing the thought aside. “Alright, we’ll talk about it later. You get some rest, and I’ll get breakfast.”

          “Dean, I just woke up,” Sam protested.

          “Yeah, and then you had a freaking psychic attack or whatever. Lay down, dammit.” He shoved Sam’s shoulder gently, and Sam didn’t have the strength to push back. He let himself fall over and buried his face in the cool pillow as Dean left.

          Sam heard the rumble of the Impala’s engine, but it was a good few minutes before he heard it drive away. He imagined Dean sitting behind the wheel, looking around in something like awe. He never thought he’d see his baby again. It was with that bittersweet thought that Sam let himself relax into the pillows and rode the pain in waves until it was almost unnoticeable.

          By the time Dean returned, Sam was so relaxed he was almost asleep, his mind blank and breathing deep. Dean strode through the door and tossed a bag at Sam. It was aimed for the bed and not Sam’s head, which was just testament to how freaked out Dean was.

          It was almost scary how easily they fell back into things, considering not twenty-four hours ago Dean was, you know, _dead_.

          “So I was thinking,” Sam groaned, sitting up too quickly and waiting for stars to stop dancing in front of his eyes.

          “Shocker,” Dean teased as he took an obscenely large bite out of his food. At least that hadn’t changed. “C’mon, we’ll talk later. Eat up. When was the last time you ate, anyway?”

          Sam decidedly ignored the question but dug in anyway.

          “I was thinking,” he started again. “We’ve heard that word somewhere before. _Castiel_ , I mean.”

          “Yeah, I thought so too,” Dean admitted.

          “So I figure if we can find out what it means, we can find out what brought you back.”

          “And why,” Dean mumbled. For his brother’s sake, Sam pretended not to hear. There was definitely something going on with him, but Sam didn’t want to pry. Dean had promised answers, but now was obviously not the time.

~~~~~

 _DAMAGED GOODS_.

          Castiel was being shouted at by a million voices, all saying the same thing: _DAMAGED GOODS_.

          He didn’t quite understand, but that didn’t keep him from making himself as small as possible. It wouldn’t be so terrifying if he wasn’t so completely and utterly alone, if the darkness wasn’t so complete. Not even his Grace could illuminate anything more than a few inches in front of his face.

          _YOU FAILED, CASTIEL_

_YOU HAD ONE JOB_

_THE MOST IMPORTANT JOB_

_AND YOU FAILED_

_WHAT WOULD OUR FATHER THINK OF YOU_

Castiel knew exactly what their Father would think of him, but he didn’t say so. His role in this was to stay silent and take whatever was thrown at him. He would learn from it; he could make himself stronger, smarter, better for having endured this. Even though it made him feel like a fledgling again.

          _THEY CAN TRACK YOU, YOU KNOW_

_OH YES, OF COURSE THEY CAN_

_YOU LEFT YOUR MARK_

_THE BOY CAN FIND YOU_

_THEY CAN HUNT YOU DOWN_

_THEY WILL DEMAND ANSWERS_

_AND THEN WHAT WILL YOU DO, CASTIEL?_

It was a direct question. One Castiel didn’t know how to answer. His silence was used against him, the voices speaking enough for both of them and then some. Sometimes Castiel’s inner monologue sounded a lot like these voices. Sometimes it sounded more like his own.

~~~~~

Castiel was the angel of Thursday, new travels, and changes.

          An angel.

          Sam blinked at the computer screen, feeling hopeful in spite of himself. There was no way he was reading that correctly, but there it was.

          Sam felt giddy. Lightheaded, even. He was very much aware of what the hunting community in general thought of angels – hell, when he was younger, he had to sneak away to church on Sunday mornings, make up an excuse to go with a friend on Wednesday, say grace silently and play it off as spacing out when he was caught – but now that there could be proof that angels exist, and that Sam could be the one to deliver that proof . . .

          “You find somethin’?” Dean asked, undoubtedly noticing how his brother seemed to light up from the inside.

          “Yeah,” Sam said cautiously. As far as the general consensus about higher powers went, both he and Dean were outliers. At completely different ends of the spectrum. Sam wasn’t even sure Dean knew he was religious. “’Castiel,’” he read, “’is the angel of Thursday and will help those who call on him on this day, especially those born on a Thursday. He is also the angel of change and travel and offers peace to those undergoing such adventures.’” There was more, but Sam stopped when he saw that Dean’s expression was completely blank. He was blinking at Sam as if he wasn’t quite listening. “Dean?”

          “Sorry, what was that first bit?”

          Sam sighed in exasperation but couldn’t keep a goofy smile off his face because Dean had been _dead_ for months, but he hadn’t changed a bit.

          “’Castiel is the angel of Thursday and will help – ‘”

          “I’m sorry, an _angel_?” Dean interrupted in blatant disbelief. “You got angel vibes from my arm?”

          “Uh, yeah, apparently,” Sam muttered, suddenly feeling stupid for even trying to break the idea to Dean. Of course he wouldn’t believe it was an angel.

          “So, what? Good guy necromancer calling on a phony angel or something?”

          Sam licked his lips and didn’t say anything.

          “What?”

          “Nothing,” he claimed, “It’s just that, you know, we’ve never met anyone or anything stronger than Yellow Eyes. It might actually be . . . you know . . . an actual angel.”

          Dean didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, okay, whatever you say.”

          “What? Why couldn’t it be?”

          Dean leaned forward in his seat, looking at Sam as if seeing him for the first time and trying to figure out exactly what he was looking at. “You’re serious,” he deduced. “Because angels don’t exist, Sam. If they did, don’t you think someone would have noticed by now?”

          Sam sighed. He didn’t want to fight this battle, not yet. “Whatever. Either way, it shouldn’t be too hard to find it, whatever it is.”

          “What d’you mean?”

          “Well, I figure I barely brushed the mark on your shoulder and got a name. Shouldn’t take much more to get a place.”

          Dean stood up straight and crossed his arms, looming over Sam where he sat on the bed, the same way he would when they were little and suspected Sam was lying to him. It was amazing how small it could make him feel, even now.

          “So let me get this straight,” he started in that deadpan way he had of sounding patronising, “You barely touched the mark before and you were rolling on the floor in pain. And you want to do it again?”

          Sam shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I mean, if it’ll help us find what brought you back, yeah. Wouldn’t be the first time one of us has bled for the cause, so to speak.”

          Dean’s shoulders slumped and he ran a hand over his face as he considered it. Sam knew how this would end: Dean would refuse anything that might needlessly cause Sam pain, if there was a way around it.

          So it was a surprise when Dean sighed, “Okay, fine.”

          Sam blinked stupidly at him for a moment. “What?”

          “I said fine. If you really want to do this. It’s not like we have any other leads.”

          “Alright.” Sam sprang up from the bed and gestured vaguely. “Roll up your sleeves or somethin’.”

          “What, _now_? Sammy – “

          “Yeah, now. The sooner the better.”

          Dean rolled his eyes, but his concern was almost palpable as he rolled up the sleeve of his tee shirt.

          Sam reached out to touch the handprint again, but hesitated, looking his brother in the eyes. “Don’t let me let go until I say okay.” At Dean’s stiff nod, Sam let his hand drop and tried to coast through the wave of blinding white pain.

~~~~~

Castiel felt the connection as soon as it was made, and his Grace seized in his chest. He knew he couldn’t stay there and wait out his punishment. He was being called, not by prayer but something stronger.

It took most of his strength, but he managed to escape from the room and the voices, running to wherever he could and ending up in a dense forest. He recognised where he was immediately, although it didn’t much matter. He let himself revel in the open space, the fresh air, the light, the silence. It was refreshing, to say the least.

          The connection was broken as suddenly as it was formed, and Castiel was suddenly full of dread at what he had done, more so that he didn’t have the strength to get back and fix his mistake. He would have to wait for them to find him, and that was terrifying.

~~~~~

At least this time Sam woke up on the bed rather than on the floor. His head was still pounding, but not as badly as it had the last time. Which was majorly weird. Sam sat up and squeezed his eyes shut with a groan as his vision swam.

          “Hey, easy, tiger,” Dean muttered, immediately at Sam’s side. He handed Sam another water bottle, which Sam took gratefully, pressing it to the side of his head where it pounded. “Well, I hope you got something good,” Dean snapped without any real heat, “Because I am _not_ letting you do that again.”

          “How long was I out?” Sam grumbled, thinking it had to have been a few minutes at most.

          “A couple hours,” Dean answered. “I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to wake you up or not.”

          “No, that’s fine,” Sam said, although the fact that he lost a few hours of his life was slightly horrifying. But his head felt better for it, so he figured it wasn’t all bad.

          “You get a location?”

          Sam had. Two of them, actually. The first had been a dark, claustrophobic room, and Sam had been terrified. He had never experienced a darkness so complete, and the fact that the creature whose eyes Sam was looking through was just as frightened was no consolation. But the strangest bit was that this room, with its endless darkness and malicious whispers coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, was Heaven. No, not figuratively, as in paradise. But this was literally Heaven, the place angels dwelled and good souls went when they died.

          But before Sam could come to grips with the contradiction, the location changed rapidly, as if the creature had somehow teleported from one place to another. Of course, if it was an angel – and it had to be; there was no doubt in Sam’s mind by this point – he had no doubt that it would have the ability to move quickly. _On the wings of an angel_ , Sam snickered to himself, even though it wasn’t funny, not really.

          Then they were in a forest, open and green, with trees all around them and sunlight shining weakly through the canopy. Sam inherently knew exactly where they were, and how to get there from where he was.

          “Monticello, Arkansas,” Sam answered. “A nature reserve not far off highway 425. If we leave now, we can make it by morning.”

          “Hey, now, what’s the rush?” Dean gently pushed Sam back down onto the bed. “We don’t know what we’re getting into here. I mean, are we gonna need to fight? And if so, with what? What even is this – this _thing_?”

          _It’s an angel_ , Sam wanted to insist, but he knew Dean wouldn’t listen. He settled for, “It’s not evil. And it won’t try to hurt us. I could tell.”

          “Oh, really?” Dean said disbelievingly.

          “Yes, really. It was like I was in its head, Dean. It’s relatively weak right now, and it won’t hurt us. But it’ll leave as soon as it’s strong enough, so we have to go _now_.”

          Dean kept one hand on Sam’s sternum, effectively holding him down while he considered him. Sam could almost see Dean asking himself _How badly do I want to find this thing?_ But Sam was desperate. Angels didn’t just bring people back to life for fun, and Sam had to know what was going on. At the very least, he had to thank it for bringing his brother back before Sam drove himself into the ground beside him.

          “Fine,” Dean finally acquiesced. “I trust you. We’ll go. But you’re sleeping in the back on the way there. You need to rest up. And drink your water for Christ’s sake.”

          Sam opened the bottle happily. At least Dean was listening to him.

          He didn’t sleep well on the trip to Arkansas. Dean even put on some soft rock for him – well, soft-ish – but Sam was just too on-edge. Because he knew what they would find at that nature reserve, even if Dean wouldn’t believe him. He knew the angel that resurrected his brother was there waiting for them, and Sam had no idea how to deal with that knowledge emotionally. How does one prepare oneself to meet a soldier of God, the very kind of creature he had been praying to all his life?

          Sam wagered he got maybe two hours of sleep, give or take, by the time they pulled off 425 to the nature centre. It took them another twenty minutes after that, and Sam was already thrumming with nervous energy. Call it instinct or a sixth sense or whatever, but he felt he could actually pinpoint the angel in all this forest.

          Dean loaded up with holy water, rock salt, silver, anything he could think of. As well as regular bullets, because he was still working on the theory that this was a human they were dealing with.

          Sam didn’t bring anything more than he carried around on a daily basis. Dean gave him a strange look, but Sam just shook his head. He wasn’t going in preparing to fight.

          Dean shouldered his duffle, and they stepped into the woods, Dean just half a step in front of Sam as if for protection. Sam was positively shaking with fear and excitement and anticipation, more so with every step forward. At a fork, Dean asked, “Your psychic mojo telling you anything?” and Sam turned right without any hesitation. It happened twice again, and if Dean was freaked out at all, he did a good job of hiding it, although at one point, he did double check to make sure his guns were loaded.

          They weren’t walking half an hour when they heard a loud rustling to their right, much too large to be a bird. Dean threw himself in front of Sam and had a hand on his knife in a heartbeat. Meanwhile, it seemed Sam’s own heartbeat had stopped. The rustling continued, and soon a man was crashing through the trees and onto the path. He straightened as he caught sight of them and cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy. Dean adopted a defensive stance between him and Sam.

          “Dean Winchester,” Castiel greeted, taking a single step forward.

          “Not another step, buddy,” Dean warned, but Castiel wasn’t paying attention because his eyes had slid over to meet Sam’s, and Sam knew with absolute certainty that the man was the angel he was looking for, the one whose eyes he had looked through to find.

          Sam’s legs trembled, and he wondered if it was appropriate to kneel before a warrior of God.

          Castiel was almost as in awe as Sam was. This was Sam Winchester, Lucifer’s destined vessel, the Boy with the Demon Blood – but it was also with Sam Winchester that Castiel had connected with earlier, and his soul was pure and blinding, his faith strong and unwavering such that Castiel had never seen. No one had ever told him about any of this. They only preached damnation about this boy, but Castiel couldn’t imagine why. It was clear he had a special place reserved for him in Heaven, with faith so strong.

          “You,” he said in amazement, approaching Sam slowly.

          Dean snarled and lunged with the knife. Castiel paid no attention, knowing it would not harm him. But Sam shouted, “No, Dean!” and jumped between them, effectively shielding Castiel but suffering a deep gash in his arm in the process.

          “God dammit, Sam!” Dean shouted, although it was obvious that it wasn’t in anger. The wound was already bleeding profusely, and Sam’s arm was limp and useless at his side.

          “Let me see,” Castiel offered immediately. Sam did without hesitation, completely trusting, and Castiel placed his hand over the wound.

          Sam openly gasped as a warmth flooded his body, emanating from the gash in his upper arm and curling outwards. It felt like springtime sunlight on his skin, except it was _inside_ _him_.

          Castiel took his hand away, the wound completely healed. Sam tested his arm – curling and uncurling, flexing the muscles, wiggling his fingers – and found it completely functional. He was amazed, but not surprised.

          “I’m Sam,” he introduced himself, holding his hand out for Castiel to shake and internally wincing because honestly? _That’s_ how he’s going to introduce himself to a freaking _angel_?

          Castiel took Sam’s hand in both of his own. “Sam Winchester,” he said, “I know. The Boy – “ he stopped himself because the Boy with the Demon Blood was no longer accurate. True, yes, but it was not his defining characteristic, not by a long shot. He started over. “You have the brightest soul I have ever seen, Sam. And the strongest faith. I am in awe of you.”

          Sam’s eyes widened almost comically, and he looked like he was about to faint.

          “I am Castiel,” he continued, dropping Sam’s hand and addressing them both. Dean was still on the defence, but he had sheathed his knife.

          “Yeah, right,” Dean scoffed softly.

          “He’s telling the truth, Dean,” Sam defended. “He’s an angel.”

          “They don’t _exist_ , Sam.”

          “You know of anything else that can do this?” He gesture to his arm, and that seemed to shut Dean up for the time being.

          “It’s true. I am the one who raised you from perdition,” Castiel said and watched Sam’s face slowly drain of colour.

          “Wait, _perdition_?” Sam asked, looking between them. Castiel’s eyes were fixated on Dean, and Dean was avoiding eye contact altogether. “What do you mean, _perdition_?” There was no way. Dean wasn’t a believer, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t deserve Heaven. Hell, if anyone did, it was Dean.

          A long, tense silence followed Sam’s revelation, in which Dean didn’t want to talk, Sam was waiting for one of them to start, and Castiel wasn’t sure what was appropriate to mention. But of course, the Winchesters were stubborn, so Castiel ended up speaking first anyway.

          “Dean is not destined for Hell, Sam,” he assured. “There is a heaven reserved for him.”

          “Yeah?” Dean snapped incredulously. “Then why the hell did I end up there, huh? Four goddamn months in the pit, and you think pulling me out now makes up for that? Not by a long shot.”

          “It was a mistake,” Castiel insisted. “You died before your time, and Hell took advantage of the opportunity. We didn’t realise what was going on until it was too late, and we took action as soon as possible.” He felt terrible about lying to them, but he couldn’t tell the truth, not yet.

          “Great. So the only reason I’m alive right now is because Heaven supposedly fucked up and had to fix it. I’m glad we went through all this just to find that out. Goddammit. C’mon, Sammy, we’re leaving. Fuck this.”

          Dean turned tail and went back the way they came. He didn’t look back, taking it for granted that Sam would follow.

          Sam didn’t, but he shifted from foot to foot where he stood, as if trying to decide what to do. “I don’t – “

          “You may go, Sam. You will see me again.”

          “Really?” Sam breathed in relief.

          “Yes. I believe I will be working with you closely in the future. Something is happening, and we must take precautions. But now is not the time for that.” Cas stepped closer and stood on his toes to kiss Sam gently, as he had observed was a common gesture of departure for most humans. “Until next time,” he said, oblivious to the flush on Sam’s cheeks as he flew off, back to Heaven to relay the exchange to his superiors and undoubtedly endure more time in the dark room.

          Sam stood stock still, touching his lips in confusion and wonderment. It hadn’t been a romantic gesture, of course. He recognised that. But the skin tingled where Castiel had kissed him, similarly to how his skin felt when he was being healed, and Sam came to the conclusion that whatever essence made up angels, Castiel had left some behind with him. Sam smiled, a million emotions swirling in him at once, making his heart flutter and his head light. He felt blessed, for lack of a stronger word. An angel of God had said he was in _awe_ of him. An angel of God had healed him and kissed him and brought his brother back. Dean had gone to Hell – that news was shocking and disturbing, and it would undoubtedly overwhelm Sam later – but for the moment, he felt light. Call it instinct or a sixth sense or whatever, but he knew in his heart that everything would be okay.


End file.
